


Long May He Reign

by The_Plaid_Slytherin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kings & Queens, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 09:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27968648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/pseuds/The_Plaid_Slytherin
Summary: Arlyrius has been running since he escaped the Usurper who took his throne. Then he finds a reason to stop.
Relationships: Exiled King/Lowborn Man He Has Decided To Protect, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22
Collections: Mistletoe Exchange 2020





	Long May He Reign

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



Arlyrius ran. It seemed as though he'd been running for weeks, though much of that time had actually been spent walking. Or shivering in the hollow between the roots of a big tree. Or sitting terrified near the mouth of a cave, trying to decide whether he was more afraid of bears or the usurper's dogs. 

He was afraid to sleep, lest they find him. He thought he might be past the border now, but he wasn't certain. They were definitely still chasing him. 

That was why he was running.

He'd thought he was far enough away to be safe, so he'd returned to the road, in the hopes of providing some relief to his bleeding feet. He hadn't gone far before he'd been spotted by two men on horseback, their helms bearing the telltale red plumes of Lord Falzick. 

Part of Arlyrius wanted to fall to the ground and allow himself to be captured. The other part of him was what kept one foot moving in front of the other. 

He plunged into the undergrowth, knowing the men would never be able to follow on horseback in full plate armor. He might have a partial advantage, but it wouldn't last long. He wouldn't last long. 

But he couldn't afford to do anything but run. 

There had been times in his flight when he'd thought about dropping the sword, but he couldn't make himself do it. 

The sword was all he had. He didn't know exactly how he'd managed to grab it. It had happened so quickly, and he'd acted entirely on instinct. He remembered his head on the block, a spooked horse, and lurching up, seizing the sword and staggering past the heads of his father and brothers. He wasn't conscious of what had happened then. People had dodged out of his way, generally mistrustful of an escaped prisoner who now had a sword.

He had used it, he knew that much, though he couldn't remember specifics. There has been someone still loyal who had shown him how to get into the sewers and then he'd been away.

He had been running ever since. When his feet had started bleeding, he'd torn his tunic and wrapped them. He'd eaten what berries he thought might be safe, remembering his mother's lessons.

And he'd mostly run. Because he was being chased. He'd thought they would give him for dead, had assumed that the usurper would never expect a pampered son of Hylendael to be able to survive a day in the woods, much less two weeks.

But Arlyrius was surprised even by his own resilience. When the choices were between discomfort and death, the answer was obvious. But he wasn't going to last much longer. He could feel the fatigue creeping up on him. He staggered, feeling his legs give out. And then he was falling, sprawled in a mud puddle. It had begun to rain. Arlyrius barely felt the cold as consciousness slipped away. 

**

Fennel did not make a habit of picking up strange men in the woods. Aster had certainly never done this. He'd gotten the impression she didn't trust many man, aside from him, if an orphaned six-year-old counted as a man. He was trying the best he could to carry on her legacy, though he wasn't sure he was doing a good job. Villagers still came to him as they'd come to her—some for help, and some just to bother him. 

And it was hard not to see this man as one of the ones he was supposed to help. He was feverish and very nearly dead; it didn't take Fennel long to decide he could heal him—and that he would heal him, despite having no idea who he was or where he had come from. He wasn't dressed for the weather, though he was armed. 

It was starting to snow, at any rate. Fennel dipped a hand into his waist pouch. With a whispered word, he scattered the powder on the man's body, which would make him briefly light enough to carry. 

Fennel slung him over his back, picked up the sword, and carried him back to his cottage, all thought of continuing to search for winter herbs forgotten. It had been a while since he'd had a chance to do real good besides making love charms, though that was what kept food on his table. 

There was no response from the man and Fennel was conscious of making sure he was still breathing as he made his way home and carried him upstairs. Then he set to work, getting together everything he might need. It was good to feel actually useful.

The man had obviously seen better days. His dark hair was cut raggedly above his shoulders, framing a gaunt face. He wore only a thin tunic and his 

**

Arlyrius woke to the vague sounds of voices from outside his chamber. It sounded like two servants talking. Did they have to be so loud when he… Had he been out drinking the night before? Why did he feel so fuzzy-headed? He tried to sit up and fell back against the bed. 

"Fuck." 

He would have to get up, regardless. His father would be furious if he missed another— 

And then he remembered. Everything. The invasion, the cascading betrayals. The imprisonment. And then the day when he'd been led back out into the too-bright world after months of darkness and watched his father and brothers be taken one-by-one to the block. They had mocked them, declaring a new king as each head had rolled until it had been his turn, the last and youngest. 

"Long live King Arlyrius!" Lord Falzick had cried as the executioner had forced his head down. 

And then somewhere a horse had spooked and he'd run. 

He'd been running ever since and now he was somewhere.

He pushed the covers back from the bed and sat up, ignoring the pain in his head. He was in a small sunny room, sparsely furnished. Winter sunlight poured in through the one window. The voices continued from below. 

He pushed himself out of bed. If he didn't know where he was, it could be dangerous. The last thing he remembered was being chased by men on horseback. He took two steps from the bed and fell. 

Someone had changed his clothes from the filthy tunic to a warm flannel nightshirt. He tried to force himself to stand and managed to stagger forward enough to grab the doorjamb. The sword. He needed Altira's sword. It had been in his family ever since she'd founded his dynasty. He lurched through the door and fell again. He could just about drag himself to the stairs.

"You might want to take it easy," said the person at the bottom of the stairs. His arms were crossed over his chest and his blue eyes were fixed firmly on Arlyrius. His hair and beard were flaming red. Arlyrius had never seen him before. "I had quite a time explaining the noise from upstairs that was you flinging yourself about to the men looking for you." 

"Men?" Arlyrius's mouth was so dry he could only say this. 

"Two of them. Armor, looked like some kind of soldier. I assume you're the escaped prisoner, what with what you were wearing and that haircut."

Arlyrius tugged at his hair. It had been hacked off short before his execution, lest the headsman's blade meet any resistance. He had completely forgotten about that. What a fright he must look. 

"I'm guessing you are since you're not denying it. What's your name?" 

"What's yours?" 

The man laughed. "That's fair. I'm Fennel." 

"Fennel?" Arlyrius couldn't help the disbelief in his voice. "Is that your real name?" 

Fennel raised one eyebrow. "No. But a name's a powerful thing. No magic user is going to share his true name with someone he's just met. What's your name?" 

"Arly." 

"Well, then, Arly. Let's get you back to bed. I don't expect the potion has entirely kicked in. You must be feeling weak." 

Arly didn't even admit that much. He accepted Fennel's help back to bed. 

The last thing he said before sleep took him was, "You didn't turn me in?"

"Nope," Fennel said, covering him once more with the well-patched quilt. "I didn't. We'll talk about that when you're better."

Arly was so tired he wasn't even worried about that. 

**

Aster would never have gotten herself into a situation like this, Fennel reflected. That was how much of his life on his own trying to carry on her legacy had gone. He'd done many things she'd never have had to do (selling mostly worthless love potions for one thing, though they did provide an aid for digestive health), but he basically felt good about most of his decisions. There were times, though, that he could feel her disapproval from the world beyond.

"I don't know that he's done anything bad," Fennel muttered. "Yes, he escaped, but he seems perfectly harmless and I didn't like the looks of those men after him either."

He dumped the contents of his mortar into the cauldron, watching as it turned a pleasant shade of purple, as anticipated.

It had been a week since Arly's arrival and three days since the men following him had come to Fennel's door. Ever since then, he'd wrestled with his decision. _I do have the advantage here if he decides to fight me_ , he reminded himself. _I've got his sword and I've got magic._

Not much offensive magic, but that didn't really matter. He could put him to sleep while he waited for the men to come back.

He felt guilty even thinking about it.

There was just something so innocent about his face. He wasn't a hardened criminal, or at least not the sort that Fennel imagined would be experienced in inflicting physical harm. The crude tunic and haircut had hidden the fact that he was obviously highborn. His hands had never done a day's work, except maybe with that sword—he did have muscles. It crossed Fennel's mind to wonder if he'd been somehow caught up in the political situation to the east when he heard footsteps outside.

He sighed. He didn't need this right now.

"Come out, witch."

Ordinarily, he'd not have complied so easily, but it somehow seemed important that he get rid of them as quickly as possible, lest they somehow find out about his visitor.

"I'm here." He had hoped to appear more dramatically, and give them something of a scare, but that wasn't in the cards for today, either. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"You know why we're here," the one on the left said. Fennel had not managed to learn their names. He wasn't going to give them that dignity. 

"I'm familiar with the definition of extortion, yes." 

Both of them looked blank.

Suddenly, the one on the left lurched forward and slammed Fennel into the wall of his cottage. "None of your fancy words, witch."

Fennel snapped his fingers. Not enough to do a real spell, but enough magic to sting a bit. He got a cuff on his head for his troubles, but it felt satisfying. "I'll get your money," he said. 

The thug released him. "Go get it. No funny business!" 

Fennel stepped back inside and grabbed the sack of coins. He left it by the door, having anticipated what time of the month it was. He had just wanted to give them a little annoyance for their troubles.

The one on the right snatched it from him and counted the coins. "Watch yourself, witch. We're not very patient." 

"I can see." Fennel was resisting the urge to put a hand to his face. He thought his nose might be bleeding, but he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him react. "You'll be on your way now. I'm sure you've got lots of money to collect. I'd offer you tea but I'm sure you don't want my tea."

They both gave him suspicious looks. One of them spat on his front walk before they left.

Fennel sighed and watched to make sure they actually mounted up and rode off. Then he went back inside, slamming the door behind him.

"Are they giving you trouble?" Arly stood at the top of the stairs. He didn't look well, precisely, but he was at least standing on his own. 

"Quite a bit." 

Arly looked around. "Where's my sword?" 

"Over there." Fennel gestured to the area behind his workbench where he'd lain it. 

Arly made his way slowly down the stairs, not taking his eyes off the sword until he had assured himself it was in one piece. 

"I didn't think prisoners were allowed swords," Fennel said dryly. 

"I stole it back." Arly was turning it over in his hands. "It's my family's. I'm the last of them, and therefore it's mine."

Fennel drew closer. "And where is your family from?" 

Arly gave him a guarded look. "Nowhere around here. Though I'm not sure where here is." 

"This is Ketstick. You probably haven't heard of it. But the men who were looking for you were from Hylendael, and I want you to know you're over the border."

"Do you think I'm safe?" 

"I suppose that depends on what you consider safe. Those men might not come here again looking for you. But I can't promise they won't look elsewhere for you, or that you can go home. How bad do they want to find you?"

Arly gave one of the weariest sighs Fennel had ever heard and ran a hand through his hair. "Very."

Fennel made a thoughtful noise. "What did you do?"

Arly's laugh was hollow. "Nothing. Maybe that was the problem."

Fennel waited for him to elaborate. "That's vague," he said finally.

"Yes." Arly showed his teeth, though it wasn't quite a smile. Very highborn, Fennel thought. He's had his teeth magically straightened.

"Well," Fennel said, "if you ever feel like not being vague, you can tell me. I won't turn you in. I think it's probably to do with the troubles in the east. Are you one of the old king's soldiers or something?"

Arly didn't answer but there was a slight twitch in his jaw. Fennel was proud of himself for having guessed correctly. "I won't stop you if you want to continue on your way. But it might not be wise. Not if they want you this bad. Our king will give Lord Falzick free rein here. He doesn't want trouble." Fennel began setting out supplies. "And if you stay here you start working."

He heard Arly shift. "All right. Just tell me what to do."

Fennel picked up his record book and the loose sheaves spilling out of it. "You can read and write, I trust? Copy these over, then. I'm rubbish at keeping organized like this."

Arly's eyes opened a bit wider as though he were faintly scandalized by Fennel's disorganization, but he got to work without complaint.

**

The dais was slick with blood and he nearly stumbled as he was forced down to the block. 

"Any final words, Your Excellency," Falzick sneered. Arly spat on his boots, which got his head slammed down on the block. 

"King Arlyrius, may your reign be as long as you deserve." The sword whipped through the air, and he woke, screaming, tangled in the sheets.

"Shh, shh. You're dreaming. It's just a dream." 

His vision swam, but eventually Fennel's face resolved out of the darkness. His hair was down around his shoulders and he wore a nightshift. "Are you all right?"

"I've never seen your hair loose," Arlyrius said. "It's nice." 

Fennel smiled. "Thanks. But that's getting off subject." He sat on the side of the bed. "I've heard you before tonight, you know." He reached out and brushed Arlyrius's hair from his eyes. Unbidden, he leaned into the touch. Thankfully, Fennel didn't stop. He stroked slowly with the back of his hand, down the side of his head. "Do you want me to stay?" 

Arlyrius was surprised by the suddenness of his answer. "Yes." 

"Good. Then maybe we'll both get some sleep that way." Fennel set his candle on the nightstand and blew it out, then slid into the bed with Arlyrius.

Instantly, the last vestiges of the nightmare were banished by the feeling of another warm body beside his. How long had it been since he'd slept with someone? 

He shifted, not wanting to reward Fennel's help with something so appropriate.

"Mm." Fennel slid closer. "This is much better. This is my room anyway." 

"It is?" 

"Yes. I put you in here because it's warmer." 

"Then I'll go—"

Fennel lifted his head. Even in the darkness, Arly could see he was not to be argued with. "Nothing of the sort. Now go to sleep." 

They did. The nightmare did not come again. 

**

This went on for some weeks. Arly became more used to his appearing in the night. In fact, when Fennel climbed into the bed—his own bed—at the beginning of the night, Arly said nothing. He didn't even say anything about removing himself to wherever it was Fennel had been sleeping. Two bodies made for a warm night. 

He was getting used to the work, too. At first it was all paperwork, nothing too taxing on his healing body. Then it became sorting and chopping ingredients, and Arly found himself learning them. 

He still hid upstairs when Fennel had a client, but he listened, just in case the men from earlier returned. He wasn't afraid of Falzick's soldiers anymore, and he wasn't afraid of the extortionists at all, but they made him angry. The fact that Fennel, despite his bluster, was afraid of them made him even angrier. 

"You're learning," Fennel said one day as Arly handed him an ingredient he needed for a potion without being asked for it. "I'm proud of you. Don't take this the wrong way, but it looks like you've never done this kind of work before."

"I've never done any type of work before." 

Fennel nodded as though he had already known this, too. 

"You know," he said slowly, "it's all right. If you want to tell me—" 

Arly smiled. "My true name?" 

Fennel grinned. "Yes. Your true name." He lifted his cauldron from the heat and pulled his gloves off. "If you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine." 

Arly stepped forward. He was feeling suddenly brave. He reached out a finger, sliding it down his neck, tracing the path of a strand of hair plastered to it. He leaned in slowly, giving Fennel time to pull away. They'd been sleeping in the same bed for weeks and had almost kissed countless times, so he was reasonably certain, but past circumstances had proved Arly was an occasionally poor judge of circumstances. 

Fennel's mouth was there waiting when he landed on it. His lips parted, drawing Arly's tongue in. He groaned, resting a hand on Fennel's waist and pulling him closer. 

"Mmm…" Fennel sucked lightly on Arly's lower lip. "You were saying?"

"I—" 

They were interrupted by a pounding on the door. "Witch! Come out, witch!" 

Fennel grimaced. "Let me—"

"No." Arly turned and grabbed his sword off the rack where it hung. 

"Arly!" Fennel hissed, but he ignored him. He was going to take care of this once and for all. "What are you going to do?"

"Get rid of them." Arly banged the door of the cottage open. Fennel paused on the doorstep. 

They didn't look terribly impressive to Arly's assessment—just two village goons. He drew his sword, dropping the scabbard. 

"Can I help you?" he asked. 

They looked at each other. A man with a sword had not been part of the plan. "We need the money," said one. 

"I'm not giving you any money." Arly drew himself up, trying to channel every inch of imperiousness he had ben raised to show. "Leave him alone." 

"Says who? You?" The bigger one drew a sword. 

"Yes." Arly darted forward, his swing met just as quickly by the other man's block. He danced back, noting that the second man had drawn his sword. They were unskilled and untrained. He felt confident he could make short work of them.

The second man's attack was easily parried, sending his sword spinning off into the mud. 

Arly dodged the first man's swing, bringing the flat of his blade down on his wrist. 

"Get out of my sight," he spat. "Or you will have to face me each and every time. And I will not be so merciful next time." 

There was a pause as they seemed to consider their options. 

They both opted to run. 

Arly turned back to the house. Fennel was still staring at him. He watched silently as Arly picked up both the men's dropped swords and came inside. He set them carefully down by the door, then straightened. 

"I," he said, "am Arlyrius, son of Thoth, king of Hylendael. They have taken my throne, and I cannot return. But I can stay here and look after you." 

Fennel stared at him. It was for so long Arly was afraid he was going to tell him to leave. 

"I sort of suspected that," he said. "Well, no, actually, I didn't, but it's so obvious in retrospect." He stopped again, hands on his hips. "If you wanted to continue what were doing earlier, get upstairs. King or not, I want you inside me." 

Arly grinned. "I thought you were about to tell me your true name." 

Fennel smirked. "Get upstairs." 

He did.


End file.
